Emma Unsworth - Animals

Inside the marquee there was a sparse audience, intently listening to the writer onstage. We sat on the back row, putting our wine beneath the chairs.

‘Would you look at him,’ said Tyler. ‘The bombastic bastard.’

I would not look at him. I was shaky all over. What if he knew, somehow?

‘A question from the audience next!’ Marty said.

I looked at Tyler. She was openly dabbing. She swigged her wine and gargled to get it all down. A man in front of us turned and scowled.

‘Here,’ I said. She passed me the bag and I put it between my knees to needle out a few surreptitious nailfuls. There was a lot in the bag.

‘Your novels tend to have happy endings,’ said a woman down near the front. ‘Don’t you think happy endings are unrealistic?’

‘All endings are unrealistic,’ said the author demurely.

Oof — this woman was good. I looked to my right again. Something was amiss. It took me a moment to work out what. Knowledge crashed in; the proverbial china shop reduced to smithereens. Tyler wasn’t in her seat. I scanned the room, panicking. Her wine was still there beneath her chair and so was her jacket, slung across the back. Then I saw her, haring down the side of the marquee towards the stage. Oh holy fuck of fucks I couldn’t cope with this, couldn’t cope with this at all. When she reached the stage she clambered on and grinned. The writer noticed her and stopped talking. A terrible hush fell over the marquee. Someone stood up on the front row and said something to Marty but he gestured for them to sit back down again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Tyler Johnson — my old spar!’

Mortifications. Mounting.

Tyler took a little bow and then took the microphone from the writer’s hand. The writer sat there, confused.

‘Say, this obsession with realism — or what I think you’re pertaining to here is better defined as naturalism,’ said Tyler into the mic. ‘It drives me up the fucking wall.’ I shrank further into my seat, my fingers finding the rim of my wine glass. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never stopped reading a book and thought, What am I doing here, sitting in this room, reading? I was just on a ship at sea, with one arm in a sling and the mother of storms approaching and sharks circling the hull. Thank fuck! It was just a story … I like a bit of style. Craft. Panache. Self-consciousness. Whatever.’

‘Are you a writer?’ said the writer.

‘Yes,’ said Tyler. ‘In every other way apart from the actual writing of things. I often think of getting my thoughts down on paper, to process them, to leave something behind. But I won’t be put in a box until I’m put in a box, know what I mean?’

I went down for my wine again and stayed low.

Tyler said: ‘Does anyone up here have anything to drink?’ The writer and Marty shook their heads. ‘Right then,’ said Tyler, ‘that’s me. Enjoy the festival, mufux.’ She made a peace sign, dropped the mic and jumped off the stage. As she bounded back to her seat the whole marquee — the canvas itself — was watching us.

‘Tyler,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘that was the most revolting display I’ve ever seen, which where you’re concerned is saying something. We’re leaving.’

‘What do you mean? They loved me. I’m made for this shit.’

‘What, bad manners?’

But then, a sea change: the irrepressible swell of fuckedness. Neurons failing to receive, kicking back, muting their phones and signing off for the day. I felt my eyes peel, my brain warm through, my limbs align. She was right. Everything was cool and fine. They loved her. They loved us both. Which was handy because we loved them, too, everyone in the tent. Everyone loved everyone and we were all made for all of the shit all of the time.

‘You should lecture at universities,’ I said.

‘Yeah, I’ve often thought about that.’

After the applause we waited outside the tent for Marty. Tyler said Thank you to everyone as they left, like it was her wedding. ‘Isn’t this just like old times?’ she said.

The good feelings. The good feelings. Was it just the drugs? Was it not the truth? I didn’t care, and not caring was a kind of purity in itself. Anything could feel pure when you were under the influence. Licking a toilet cistern. Talking to a moron. Putting on a purple jumpsuit and doing star jumps to ‘All Night Long’ by Lionel Richie. The most dickish and dull of activities, ideas and objects were suddenly invested with an intense and intriguing glamour. Who wouldn’t want to reside in that place, that world? Only a fool, my friend, only a fool.

‘Laura! Tyler!’

He grinned. ‘How are you?’

Oh, you know, wanking over your cockshot occasionally.

He kissed us both on both cheeks and put an arm around each of us. He smelled of new leather. Aftershave. My stomach boaked.

‘What are you two reprobates doing here amongst all the proper people?’

‘We came on a whim,’ I said.

NOBODY TRAVELS THREE HUNDRED MILES ON A WHIM, DICKHEAD.

‘Impressive whim.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your wine’s run out.’

‘Probably for the best.’

‘Probably not.’

Stop it , I thought. This is categorically not fair, on anyone. In fact, let’s shake hands and bid each other farewell and turn round and walk off in opp—

‘Fancy another?’

‘Yes.’

Arguably, the joy of the intoxicated world is not reality. (Tyler: Reality is for people TOO WEAK FOR DRUGS .) Those aren’t your real feelings because we base our concept of reality on how things are most of the time. The dust settles and the dazzle fades and you realise you feel nothing for jumpsuits or morons or Lionel Richie except the embarrassment that the memory of your involvement with them demands.

Know what? I tire of reality.

We sat round a wooden table outside the marquee. There were four of us; Liz the author came for a drink, too. She was a good woman. She lived in Nottingham with her husband and three sons. She wore a lot of precious stones. Practised Reiki in her spare time.

‘Laura’s a writer,’ said Marty.

‘That’s great,’ said Liz.

His leg brushed against mine under the table and I moved away, quickly. My reflexes were catlike. I was enjoying thinking that sentence. My reflexes are catlike. I thought about offering him some mandy.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

‘What?’

‘Introduce me as a writer.’

Liz turned to me. ‘Have you had anything published?’

‘I’m working on a novel.’

‘What’s the title?’

‘Well it was Bacon but I’m thinking that’s too glib and I had this like weird epiphany the other night when I was on a plane on my own and I now think it should be called Killing the Changes you know because that’s more mysterious and I want the book to be mysterious and complex even though it’s about the simplest thing really and that’s love.’

‘What’s your name? I’ll look out for you.’

‘Laura Joyce.’ She looked at me. ‘I know. I know .’

‘In the particular is contained the universal,’ said Marty. ‘That’s Joyce. The other one.’

‘In the sub-atomic particular now,’ I said. Liz looked at me oddly. Was I not making sense? Because I actually thought I was being pretty fucking profound. I thought about offering her some mandy. ‘I could always send you… if you… ’

‘Good luck with it!’ Liz chugged a large mouthful of wine.

‘Liz!’ Tyler cried, standing up. ‘Do some Reiki on me.’

‘Oh, I’ve got to go.’

‘Just a little, would you? I’m all tense with driving and being beaten up.’ She rolled her shoulders.